


boom clap

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ableist Language, Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Hipsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Portland Oregon, Recovery, Slurs, implied/referenced eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You'll be fine." Simmons fixes a couple missed buttons and puts his hands behind Grif's head. "Everything is going to be fine." </i> </p><p>or: Dexter Grif, former boy band member and alcoholic, is putting his life back together in Portland, Oregon. Complications just come with the territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	boom clap

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be, like, cute and kinda fluffy. and shorter. and it became this whole thing. please let me know if i've completely fucked up discussions of addiction and recovery. i've been doing a lot of research, but i can't claim to be any sort of expert it.
> 
> additionally, this was kind of inspired by the justin timberlake concert i went to last month, and i was like, "oh that'd be donut."

There's a particular kind of shame that Grif feels when people recognize him. It's not like he regrets his years in Dirtbag, or wants to go back and erase it, or even do it _better_ \-- it's more like, people want to know what's next and Grif doesn't have the heart to tell him that Donut was always the best part of group, and what's next is already _happening_ : Donut getting successful, Grif and Simmons getting real jobs. As real as they can be, anyway, when you're entire _life_ has just been this industry. 

Like right now, standing in line at Starbucks, ordering an Americano, one pump of sweetener, _please do not talk to me_ \-- 

"Bro. Didn't you used to be in, like, a band? Or something?" 

Grif looks up at this barista, gauges blowing out his ears, a delicate, melancholic curve to the way he's shaved the side of his head and let whatever's on top just sort of fall to the side. It's the kind of style that takes an hour to perfect, but when you're done carries that distinct air of _I just rolled out of bed and now I look like a rock 'n roll sex god_. Donut could actually do that, no work required.

"Yeah," Grif admits, trying to get the kid to take his debit card.

"Dirtwad, right? My sister had a poster of you guys in her room. They played that one song at my prom."

"Dirtbag." Grif corrects people out of habit, these days. And maybe a little pride. The kid is looking him up and down, taking in the flannel and jeans, the glasses and boots. "I'm a writer now," Grif explains. 

The kid grins. "Yeah, me too." 

Grif finally escapes from whatever weird kind of memory game this guy is playing and heads out the door. He has four meetings today and he's doing an interview with some jazz singer at lunch. There isn't enough time in the day for the amount of shit Grif has to get done. He texts his assistant to try and get rid of at least one meeting so he doesn't collapse like a black hole in on himself before noon. 

His phone rings when he's still ten minutes out from the office, the bright default tone ringing out to let everyone know that Dexter Grif does not know how to use his Blackberry. "This is Grif."

"We have an emergency." 

Everything with Simmons is either an emergency, bordering on an emergency, or the fallout of an emergency, so Grif tends not to freak out right away, if ever. "What's up?"

"Donut's calling me."

"Yeah, he does that sometimes. We're still friends. That's what friends do. Did you have an aneurism in the shower this morning?"

"No, Grif. He's calling and he's got ideas."

Grif shifts the phone over to his ear and sighs. "Dude, I'm getting genuinely worried for your sanity right about now."

" _Grif._ " Ah, that _tone._ Grif loves this tone, because it means he's ruffled Simmons's feathers enough that if he's in his studio, he's pacing a circle over that dingy green carpet and probably tossing back his fifth cup of coffee that morning and gesticulating wildly at his assistant. It's the tone he uses when he's on the verge of a Simmons Meltdown and Grif simultaneously awaits and fears those moments, depending on how close by he is. 

"Okay. Dude. _What?_ "

"He wants us to play a reunion show." 

Grif nearly stops in the middle of the crosswalk, and it's fucking Portland, he doesn't live in New York anymore, so no one calls him a motherfucking God damn fucking piece of shit _fuck_ and instead just mills around him like a stream around a rock. He moves a few seconds later and shakes his head. "That's not happening."

"He was pretty serious about it."

"Fuck, why'd he tell _you_ this?"

Simmons laughs. "Are you seriously asking me that right now?" The _you are impossible to deal with_ is heavily implied.

"You left, too," is all Grif can manage because he knows exactly how everything ended.

"Yeah, but Donut kind of remembers it differently, man. He was still having _fun_ when it all ended."

"Uh-huh, because Mr. Solo Career was knocking and you and me were fucking spare parts at that point."

"You can't blame Donut for what happened."

"I _don't_ ," Grif says hotly, even though he definitely _did_ , for like two years. It took a lot of stupid decisions to figure that out, but Grif is telling the truth now, even though that truth comes with a lot of baggage and therapy attached to it. He left for his own reasons, and Simmons left because it wasn't going to last anyway and Donut just did what he was best at -- no one could blame him for that. "When does he want to do this?" he asks. He's inside, now, getting into the elevator alone and punching the button for the magazine office. 

"Not sure. Wants to meet up this week when he's in town to talk about it. His manager is a pretty nice guy. It'd be, like, one show, Grif."

"I'll think about it."

Grif can practically _see_ Simmons rolling his eyes and it makes him smile, just for a second. "Yeah, _okay_. You do that, and I'll just do all the work for the both of us, how's that sound?"

"Sounds like just about everything we do together," Grif says brightly.

Simmons mutters. "You're an asshole," and hangs up. Mostly because they don't do goodbyes.

 

 

 

Grif isn't sure how Donut remembers things -- probably with a nice peachy tone cast over it all: Grif, the melancholy borderline alcoholic who left in a whirlwind to pursue addiction full time. Simmons, the one who could negotiate contracts and knew when they were getting screwed over. The fact that they didn't leave together, like they'd wanted to, still keeps Grif up some nights, when he thinks about all the apologies he still has to make. 

He spent a year binge drinking and forgetting to call his sister back before Simmons nearly busted down his door and dragged his ass out to get some help. Another year of getting clean, seeing a therapist, starting to make amends. Another year of figuring out what he wanted, starting the blog and seeing his first show in two years. Getting the job at RED&, getting the literal boot in the ass he needed from Sarge. Moving to Portland, helping Simmons move to Portland -- three years isn't a lot, but it's long enough when you mark everything in milestones.

_This is when I started caring._

_This is when I stopped drinking._

_This is when I knew I wasn't alone._

He sometimes hates the thoughts he has, but this is why Grif works, he thinks, because working keeps him awake and level headed and distracted. 

"You look like shit." 

Grif looks up and his boss is looming in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, face that perpetual, heavy metal scowl.

A long time ago, Sarge was in some kind of 80's hair band, and it kind of shows. Grif knows one of the reasons he got hired is because Sarge used to be an addict, that he and Grif wound up in the same meeting in New York while Sarge was in the city for business, and when he talked about music and what he did and what he wanted to do, Sarge had come up to him after and told him if he wanted to stop being a whiny shitbaby and get his act together, he'd pay for him to relocate and help him find a place to live.

"It's been a morning."

"It's barely nine."

"Yeah, well, misery waits for no one, sir." Sarge chuckles and sits down in one of the Ikea chairs in front of Grif's Ikea desk. Grif has a hard to time keeping anything from Sarge. He hasn't had a sponsor in a while, mostly because he's already starting to sponsor people himself, but Sarge was kind of there for him in a weird way when he needed it most, so Grif sometimes lets it spill. They don't mushy about it, but letting it out helps. "Donut wants us to play a reunion show."

Sarge doesn't look all that surprised, but then again, he lived through the 80's. "And?"

"And...that's it."

"That's why you're actin' like a sorry sack of shit?" Grif shrugs. "Son, you need to build a damn bridge over that time and get over it." Sarge is full of witty and completely useless sayings like that, but Grif still feels a little winded. "Stop bein' a baby."

"I'm _not_ ," he says, his voice sounding whiny even to himself. "I just--"

"You know I went to one of your shows?" Grif looks up. Sarge is always telling the same stories, like over and over again, expecting Grif to act like it's the first freaking time he's heard it. But this one is actually new. "You boys were pretty young, 'bout ten years ago." Grif remembers. He was nineteen, Dirtbag was _popular_ , and he thought maybe they could do it forever. "I thought that the three of you looked good up there, looked like you were having fun." 

"We were."

"Uh-huh. So what happened?"

 _Alcohol_ , Grif doesn't say. "I don't know."

The reason Sarge and Grif work well together is that even when they drive each other fucking crazy, they can both pretend it's okay that they're lying to one another, when they really need it. Sarge gets up and taps a finger on Grif's desk. "Maybe you ought to remember what you _liked_ about that time. See if it opens any doors for you, or some shit like that."

"Sir, you're _so_ inspiring."

"Can it, shirtbird. And don't fuck up this interview today. Gonna be the cover story." Sarge shuts the door behind him, leaving Grif alone to remember that, contrary to what he'd rather do, he still has work to get done. 

He's right that misery waits for no one, but neither does fucking adulthood, or whatever.

 

 

 

Grif's assistant manages to get rid of two meetings, because she's amazing, and Grif promises her lunch for like a month, maybe even a massage gift card or something. And because she was hired by Sarge and works for them both, she just flips him off on his way out. 

It's raining, because of course it is, and when Grif finally gets to this little cafe on the other side of town, he's soaked to the bone, but five minutes early, because he's a fucking professional. He doesn't see Tex anywhere, and she's got a distinctive look from what he remembers. All black with a shock of platinum blonde hair, brooding glasses to top it all off. She does walk in ten minutes late, which is to be expected from someone with her kind of attitude about most everything she does. 

"You're Dexter," she says and Grif winces at the name, but doesn't correct her. "Your boss said you'd be the one sulking in the corner."

"Fantastic," he mutters, pulling out his recorder and notebook. "I'm feelin' the love."

"Mmhm." The waitress comes by and Tex orders a juice and Prosecco. Grif gets a coffee. "The wine here is good, you want some?"

"I don't drink. Can I get a water, too, please?" The waitress nods and heads into the back. Grif flips over to a new page and turns on the recorder. "I'm sure you're pretty busy, so we'll just get started." Tex nods and takes her drink when the girl comes back. Grif stirs some sweetener into his coffee and takes a sip. "This is kind of a free for all. I'm gonna ask you some open-ended questions and you let me know if there's anything you'd specifically like to talk about. The article is just kind of a _more you know_ piece, so we don't have to get too deep, but we can let it go where you want it to go."

Tex snorts a laugh and leans forward. "Are you high?"

Grif pinches the bridge of his nose. "No. I am not." God, he wants a cigarette. He hasn't smoked in six years, but he wants one, suddenly.

"Whatever you say." She tips back in her chair and shrugs. "First question then."

"When did you start making music?"

"When I was six. My old man played piano in a bar. I spent a lot of time with him. My mom died when I was pretty young, so he did what he could to scrape by. But he loved music and I guess I just picked it up. He taught me to play."

Grif nods, nearly writes _daddy issues, check_ , on his notes, and keeps going. "Anything that you specifically draw inspiration from?"

"My childhood. Stories I grew up on. I had a lot of melodramatic women in my life. My dad's sisters were all three-time divorcees with a few kids a piece. My grandmother was a matriarch. Men didn't figure much into my life until I was in high school." She's already finished her drink, but doesn't order another one. "Are you going to ask about him?"

Grif shakes his head. "I don't have to. This isn't an article about your relationship with..." Grif flips through his notes. "L.L. Church, I guess is what he goes by."

"Leonard," she mutters, smiling to herself. 

"Right. Look, this is about you, so I'm not super interested in feeding any kind of gossip mill. You're a popular woman, he's got a popular band. People wanna say shit. I'm not interested in doing that." Grif takes off his glasses and cleans off a few rain spots. "I like your music, you know."

"Yeah?"

He nods. "Was never really into jazz until I moved here, but I got a friend who's pretty wild about it, drags me to festivals. I saw you last year. You're good. You've got a lot of talent. I don't think your relationship with this Church guy has any bearing on the kind of musician you are." 

Tex flushes a little, fiddling with her napkin and looking around. "I appreciate that," she says quietly. 

"Good. Let's keep going."

 

 

 

Grif manages to get through the interview and two meetings, just in time for it to be five and a decent enough time for him to bail on the rest of the work he hasn't gotten done. It can wait until tomorrow, he thinks, and it's kind of important that he maintains what's left of his sanity on a weekly basis. It's been a day, and Grif decides to go to a meeting, because when he's had a _day_ , he sometimes just needs to.

He specifically likes to go to Tuesday evening meetings at a church not far from his house. They're led by Wash, who only _goes_ by Wash, and they're pretty levelheaded, effective gatherings. Wash lived in New York around the same time Grif did, but they didn't run in the same circles. They met in Portland, figured out they were kind of kindred spirits, and they've been decent buds for a few years now. They save the chat for after.

"You got any pictures from that jazz festival last month?" Wash is a photographer, does mostly freelance work, but kind of sells to the same people over and over and does weddings on the side. He's got an entire bagel shoved into his mouth right now, but he nods, finally chewing and swallowing. "You're disgusting."

"I haven't eaten today. I did two ceremonies and a traffic jam."

"You photographed a traffic jam?"

He shrugs. "It was caused by a deer crossing. Kind of adorable. You doing that piece on Tex still?"

"Yeah. We need someone to do a shoot for the cover, too. You game?"

"Sure."

"I'll let you know what day we decide on." Grif grabs a bottle of water from the basket on the table and twists it open. "Donut wants us to do some kind of reunion."

Wash raises an eyebrow, picking up his bag and hefting it over his shoulder as they head out. "Sounds cool."

"You know, every time I tell someone this, they say that."

"Yeah, because it _does_. It's not like he wants you to commit and move in and marry him or something man, get a grip. He wants to do show. What's the big deal?"

Grif wishes he could answer that, because honestly it is and isn't a big deal, all at once. He doesn't know how to tell Wash that listening to Dirtbag songs makes him taste whiskey in the back of his throat, and he has no idea what he'd feel like if he sang one. Or picked up a guitar ever again. It's easy to listen to other peoples' music, or write about other peoples' music -- hell, he can even listen to Donut's music sometimes. But his own voice sounds like eighty-seven rum and cokes and Grif isn't interested in going to that place.

Saying, "I left the band in a bad way," kind of says all of that, and Wash has known Grif long enough to read between the lines. "Anyway." 

"Wanna go to a show with me tonight? Be a good review chance probably."

"Yeah, alright." Grif pulls out his phone invites Simmons out of habit -- Simmons will say no, and then be there before both of them because he's a Katy Perry song and a half. "I'm starved," he adds, because he's always hungry and Wash tells him as much. 

And Simmons _does_ say no, and he _is_ there before both of them, nursing a water and looking like a bird, arms folded over his chest and nose turned up. He hates going to these things because he hates it when people recognize him, ask him to listen to their sample, just one time, please -- Simmons went into producing that same year the two of them left the band, moving to New York with Grif for reasons he's never really spelled out before. 

"These guys suck."

"They do," Wash agrees. "But they're opening for a better band. I know the lead singer."

"When you say _know_ ," Grif says with a smirk, "you actually mean _fuck_ , right? Because you've got that look on your face."

"We've interacted," Wash says, taking a sip of his water. He shrugs. "They're actually really good. Not incredibly motivated, but good enough." He inspects the piece of paper left on the table with the band's bio. "Here."

Grif looks it over and laughs. "Man, what kind of name is _Caboose_?"

"He's the bass guitarist. They're kind of some weird folk electronica."

" _Ugh._ " Simmons rubs his temples. "That's exactly more of what I need. Dipshits on keyboards, whining about high school."

"They're almost thirty," Wash points out as they opening bad mercifully gets off stage. "I didn't even invite you here, Grif did. I'm not asking you to sign them, Christ. I'm their friend, not their agent."

"First you're a fuckbuddy, now you're a friend. Pick a side, Wash." Grif gets a good hard kick in the shin for that one, but it's kind of worth it.

Wash isn't wrong about the band being good. It's definitely some weird folk electronica, and it's just the two of them, Tucker and Caboose, according to their bio sheet. Tucker's got that sex god indie rocker thing going for him, dark skin and dread tied back behind his head. Caboose is a tall dude with a goofy smile, hair that flops in his face and makes him look like he's honing in on twenty-one, not thirty. They play for a good half hour before the next act has to come on, and Tucker makes his way over to their table, looking pretty pleased with himself.

"Dude, you showed up." Wash nods, pulling up another chair with his foot and Tucker sits down. "Fuck it's hot in here." He looks around the table. "Who the fuck are you guys?"

"Grif and Simmons. Music people."

Grif sticks out his hand and Tucker takes it. "Good show, man."

"Thanks. You guys want a drink or something?" He asks about the time when Caboose comes back with a couple of beers for them both, sitting on the other side of the table and still managing to be bigger than everyone else. "This is Caboose."

"Hello!"

"Good playing," Simmons offers, because even when he's pissy, he's still cordial. "How long you guys been together?"

"Dunno. Can't remember when we started."

Caboose shakes his head. "Freshman year of college. Eleven years." 

"Nerd," Tucker mutters, laughing. He lifts his bottle toward Caboose and says, "Cheers, dude," and drains half of it in one go. "Is this cool?" he adds quickly, looking suddenly self-conscious about what he's doing. "Fuck, man, I didn't--"

"You're fine," Wash says, looking a little endeared. "You guys earned it." 

There was a time when Grif couldn't be around people and their booze. When he could go to coffee shops and that was it. But working for the magazine and moving here practically forced him, and Sarge was actually helpful at the start, going to places with him and helping him deal. Wash must know Tucker better than he lets on, if he's already talked to him about this. But then Wash has always been an aggressively guarded person, so Grif should know better. 

"What are you guys called again?" Simmons asks. The next band sucks as bad as the first one, and he looks a little like he wants to die. 

"The Scopes," Tucker shouts back. "Man, these guys fucking _blow_."

"It's very loud in here," Caboose says, looking put off and upset. Tucker nods and they get up. 

"There's a jazz bar across the street, you guys wanna go with?" Tucker's already turning to go, and Grif suspects he's the kind of guy who invites people because he doesn't want them to feel left out, but does what he wants anyway. Caboose is following him like a puppy dog, and Simmons relents, casting one look at the terrible trio on stage and hustling out the door. 

Grif snags Wash by the shoulder. "Dude, are you actually trying to get these dudes some kind of record deal, or are you really that whipped?"

Wash's smirk says it all, and later on he makes out with Tucker right there in front of them, so Grif can see exactly why he's here, in all its sloppy, open-mouthed glory. 

None of this stops Simmons from handing Tucker his card and asking him to give him a call in the morning. "They're good," he concedes as they walk away from the bar. Grif realizes he still hasn't eaten, and he makes Simmons buy him a burrito from a food truck as they walk by. "Anyway, that Blue Tones guy is all done and I've got some free studio time this month."

"I interviewed his lady friend today."

Simmons raises an eyebrow. "Tex?" Grif nods. "What's she like?"

"Sultry, sexy, talented. Into local wines and vineyards. You'd like her." 

Simmons laughs and gets himself a plate of tacos. They sit at a table nearby, popping the caps off of scrawny glass bottles of Fanta and looking up. "She could do better. Could do worse, too, I suppose. Love doesn't really give you a lot of choices sometimes."

"Sure it does," Grif says. He doesn't really buy into that 'you can't choose who you love' line, mostly because Grif _did_ make all of his own choices, and a lot of wrong ones when it came to the people he let into his life. Simmons glances toward him. "She's a smart girl."

"Church isn't so bad himself. He's a dick, but he's got something going for him, in a way. He's got talent. And he talks a lot about her."

"Well, may the Lord bless him, in all his dickish glory." Simmons laughs and nods in agreement, draining his soda and finishing off his tacos. It's the kind of night that Grif sort of lives for -- here with his best friend, talking about the thing that brought them together, that keeps them together, even when Grif wants to abandon it. 

A long time ago, Grif fell in love with Simmons. 

But it was a long time ago. The longest time ago. 

He isn't always sure he's grown out of it, when Simmons walks him home like they've just gone on a date, or leans against his doorway, like he's waiting to get invited in. Grif figures he could do that. They've talked about it. They've talked about a lot of things. 

But instead he asks, "Did you talk to Donut again?" and Simmons nods. "If, and I mean fucking _if_ , we did this. Where would we do it?"

"Here. He wants to do it here." Grif nods. "Did you think about it?"

"Kind of."

"Just let me know when you finally figure it out." He starts to head down the stairs of Grif's front porch. Grif reaches out and pulls him back.

"Simmons."

There's a look there, and maybe some other night it would have meant something else. 

"What?"

Grif lets go, breaking the connection and shrugging. "Thanks for the burrito."

Simmons nods. "Night, Grif."

"Yeah, man. Night."

 

 

 

"Oh my _God_ , how could you even fucking _say no_ to that?!" 

Grif knew before he made this call that talking to his sister would make him feel better and stupid at the same time. While everyone except Sarge tends to walk on eggshells around his bad moods, Grif's sister reaches right in and yanks on whatever's worked its way inside him. "Your kindness is inspiring," he mutters, shuffling through his notes. He needs to write the article on Tex today, and he won't get anything done if he goes into the office to do it. 

"You're a fucking moron," she says.

"I love you, too."

" _Whatever_. I think it'd be the best choice you made since you moved away from that shitshow." Kai affectionately refers to Grif's life pre-Portland as any number of bold and derogatory things. Grif doesn't correct her. They don't have a lot of teaching moments anymore. He doesn't actually have to explain to her why he's afraid to do it -- because he knows that's what this is about and he's okay enough to admit fear when it's there -- but she's not the kind of person who says anything delicately. "I know you're like, totally freaked out by what it could mean or whatever. I get it. But you aren't sick anymore, Dex. You're better now." 

"I know that," he mutters, getting up to go onto his back porch. It's still raining, which feels good, but the chill makes his skin prickle. "Would you come? If I did this."

"Absolutely."

Grif nods. "I need to think about it some more."

"You should," she says. "I mean, I know I'm talking big here, but like, yeah you should think about this before you do it. I think you _should_ do it, but I'd get it if you didn't."

"I know you would."

"Ugh, okay, I can't do anymore, like, emotional unpacking with you, okay? I gotta go to work." When she finally hangs up, Grif feels better about the situation. He still doesn't know what he's going to do, but if it got his sister out here, it'd be worth it. He keeps picturing Simmons's face from the night before, the sad way he looked at Grif like maybe he didn't know him as well anymore. His fingers still burn where they were connected, and Grif decides today is his day and puts his computer away to go for a run. 

He started running back in New York, and hated it. He still hates it, now, because running isn't something he's good at. Grif was always a hefty guy in school, but he lost weight in the band, mostly because he'd started replacing his meals with drinks and kind of puking up everything he ate, when he managed to swallow it at all. It was one of those things he didn't even realize he missed -- he loved food and what it did, he loved eating with people and enjoying things. He's gained a lot of it back, and it makes him happy that he can look like his old self again. 

He hates running, but when he started it was the only way he knew to drown out a lot of things he didn't feel like admitting to himself.

For some reason he jogs to Simmons's place, and he doesn't know why. The guy works all the time, goes into the studio at seven and stays until one in the morning sometimes. So Grif's surprised to find him at home in his sweats at almost eight.

"Uh, dude, did you fall and hit your head?"

"I overslept, asshole." He leaves the door open and Grif lets himself inside, locking it after him. "You're dripping."

"Yeah, man, it's _raining_ outside."

"And you went running in it. Good for you, glad you're on top of all the decisions you have to make lately."

Grif scowls. "Don't be a dick."

"Stop projecting." Simmons hands him a towel and a cup of coffee. "If you're going to waste your time over here today, then change your clothes. I put the shit you left here in the hall closet." Grif flicks water at him, just for good measure, and goes to change his clothes. He's crashed here more times than he can count, because Simmons is a better guy than he likes people to believe, and sometimes Grif can't be home alone. When he comes back out, there's bacon frying in the skillet and toast on the table. 

"Sweetie, you're so thoughtful."

"Fuck you." He hands Grif a plate. "Not a work day?"

"Not a work day."

Simmons sits down at the table, legs folded under him. "Donut's coming into town. He's playing a show."

"Yeah, I know." Grif's had passes for the Frankie and the Cadets performance since January. He's supposed to write about it for the magazine, have Wash do some photos. He figured he could get in and out without ever seeing Donut, considering how many people will be there. But all this reunion talk means he'll have to see him, and Grif's only a little sure he's ready for that. 

"I was really jealous of Donut," Simmons says quietly. Grif looks up. "Like that first year after we left, and he was selling sold out shows in LA and shit."

"I was drunk for most of that," Grif mutters.

"That isn't funny." Grif shrugs and Simmons shakes his head. "I don't know, we used to be tight."

"Used to be," Grif stresses. "We _were_ something. What's the point in reliving the past? Why should we do this?"

"No one's saying you _have_ to, Grif."

"Yeah, well, it sure as shit feels like they are." He doesn't feel hungry anymore, pushing his chair up and pacing the kitchen. "I left because I was fucking everything up. Because I wanted to get out and be alone."

"You weren't alone."

"Because you fucking _smothered_ me."

"I was trying to _help you_ , Grif." Simmons is on his feet now, pointing angrily. "I wanted you _alive_ , so yeah. I fucking followed you to New York and I tried to help you, even when you pushed me away, when you fucking _hit me_ , when you stole my money and lied to me and told me you were going to meetings when you weren't. I was trying to help you because I was fucking _in love with you_ , and losing you scared the shit out of me." 

Grif's hands hang down by his side, each accusation hitting him square in the chest. He knows it's all true. Even the last part. 

He admitted it himself, to his therapist and his group. He told everyone about Simmons. He fucking _bragged_ about Simmons, about how smart he was and what he was doing and how much better his life was going and how lucky he was that Simmons was breathing down his neck, driving him to places, letting him crash in his living room for months on end. 

"I still love you," Grif says. 

"Fuck, _what?_ " Simmons has his hands on the back of one of kitchen chairs, looking down, head tilted like he just can't hear right. 

"I love you," Grif says again. He can feel the heat on his neck and back, arms shaking. There's something raw and alive inside him, trying to climb out and be heard. He owes Simmons a million and a half favors, for everything he's done, and he'll never be finished apologizing for the things that happened when he was sick. When he was drinking away paychecks even when he was still trying to get help. "I've always loved you."

" _Dammit_ , Grif--"

"Fuck this, I'll go. I don't know why I fucking came over here anyway, all you ever do is bitch at me--" He feels Simmons grab his wrist and pull and Grif goes willingly, because he always has, when it came to Simmons. There's a moment when they're just looking at each other and Grif knows exactly the kind of look Simmons has in his eyes, because he knows he must seem just as hungry. 

"I'm sorry," he croaks out. "Simmons, man, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything."

Simmons pulls him in, foreheads knocking together painfully. Grif grits his teeth and fists Simmons's shirt in his hands, closing his eyes. He kisses first, because he owes that much. Grif tilts his head up and shoves their mouths together, licking his way in, hands on the back of Simmons's neck. They've talked so much about it, for so long, waited and waited and _waited_ for the other one to finally be ready. It's like breathing for the first time and Grif moans, his nerves happy and haywire and sparking inside his head.

"You're a fucking idiot," Simmons mutters, backing them up toward the couch. "Such a fucking _idiot_."

"I know." Grif pushes him back and settles into his lap, fingers skirting up under his shirt. 

It's as easy as Grif always thought it might be. Simmons makes this _face_ when he comes, makes a noise in the back of his throat when Grif pushes their cocks together, easy as it could be, and buries his face in Grif's neck until they've both wound down, and can stretch out on the couch. 

"There's come on your shirt," Grif finally says.

Simmons shoves at him. "Get off me, fatass." Grif cackles and rolls off the couch onto the floor. They lay like that for a minute, laughing without stopping, clutching at each other until they can make it back into the bedroom and get properly naked.

 

 

 

"Frankie and the Cadets?" 

"Uh-huh." Tex is in for her cover shoot and Wash is in full work-mode, so that leaves Grif to wrap up a few loose ends. What they mostly end up talking about is Dirtbag. "After me and Simmons left, he was solo for a while. He still is, technically, he's just got this backup band or whatever. It's cool." Grif surprises himself by how often he's come to Donut's defense in the last week. 

"Sounds like a good time."

"You wants passes?"

Tex shrugs. "Sure. Church needs to get out in public." She pauses. "You're not putting anything about us in your article, right?"

"Again, no. Not interested. Your relationship doesn't really speak to me the way it does with the people who by _Ok!_ magazine." Tex laughs behind her hand and Wash snaps his fingers at them, scowling. "Dude, sorry." Grif shakes his head. "Anyway, I'll get those for you before you go. I got four and I only need two."

"Are you bringing Simmons?" Wash asks.

"Okay, so you can talk, but she can't laugh?" Wash raises an eyebrow behind the camera. " _Yes_. Simmons and I are going. _Yes_. It's kind of a date. _Yes_. We are kind of dating now. Are. You. Happy?"

"Uh-huh. Tex, look left." She does and Wash snaps a couple more shots and stands up straight. "I think we're done here. I'll get these to you tonight. Let me know which ones you're into. It was very nice to meet you," he adds. "I'm a big fan."

"Thank you." Wash starts packing up his stuff and Tex stands, stretching. "I know you probably have your own opinion about...me and Church." She stands in front of the window, finger tracing the rain drops sliding down the glass. "My mom always said you can't choose who you love--" Grif looks up, interested now. "--but I definitely chose Church." Tex smooths her shirt over her stomach, settling her hands on her hips. "He's mean to people. I know that. He just...he likes who he likes."

"And he likes you."

Tex's mouth turns up, just a bit. "Yeah." 

"Then that's all that matters," Grif says. He hands her a few sheets of paper. "This is the article. If there's, like, _one_ thing you don't like, tell me. Because I'll have to rewrite it tomorrow. Seriously, though. Check it out, let me know how it makes you feel."

Tex nods and takes the papers from him. "I will." He promises to leave her passes for the show at will-call before she goes. 

For a while, Grif just sits in his office, cleaning out drawers he hasn't opened in a while and waiting for Wash's email with the photos. He's looking through them when Sarge comes in, tossing some things onto his desk. Grif jumps a little and scowls. "Why yes, sir, you can come into my office and throw things at me. Thanks for fuckin' asking."

"That's thanks for askin', _sir_ ," Sarge says, settling heavily in the Ikea chair. Grif leafs through the papers, but they're mostly just old issues of _Red &_, which Grif has already backread to death. "Those are for you."

"Yeah, thanks, I kind of work here, so I'm pretty familiar with how our magazine looks."

"I got a call from some guy at _Rolling Stone_ today. Askin' about you." 

"Uh, okay? I didn't apply to fucking Rolling Stone. If I wanted to get rejection letters I'd send some poems to Random House or something." Grif realizes every magazine has one of his stories featured on the cover. "What's happening? I'm confused."

"They're feelin' for you. Wanted to know how I felt about your work ethic."

"Oh _goody_." 

"I told them you marched to the beat of your own drum and got things done."

"Yeah, you--" Grif stops. "You said that?"

"I did."

"I thought you kind of hated me."

"Son, I kind of hate everyone." Sarge reaches forward and picks up one of the magazines. "But it ain't a bad opportunity."

Grif shakes his head. "They just, like, cold-called you?" Sarge nods. "That's weird."

"You're good at what you do, son. You got your shit together and you should be proud of yourself."

"I, uh." Grif leans back in his chair. "Why are you being so nice to me? This is weird."

Sarge nods and stands up. "You're right. It is. You get your ass out of here and go to that show."

"Yes, sir."

"You make up your mind about the reunion concert?"

Grif stands with him, swinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and nodding. "I did. And I'm gonna do it."

Sarge smiles. "Good. Now beat it, scumbag."

"Aw, I love you, too."

 

 

 

Grif's got no clue what to wear. He's so nervous he's gotten sick twice, but that might be because his milk was sort of expired. Simmons comes over early to sift through his clothes, because he was already the better dressed of the two of them even before they finally got together. "You look good in yellow," Simmons says, mostly to himself, and mostly because Grif doesn't own a single fucking thing in yellow. He ends up choosing another one of Grif's usual hipster trashbag ensemble, with Dickies instead of jeans, and Grif buttons up the plaid shirt with shaking hands. "Stop this."

"I'm getting the flu."

"You're not."

"No, I know. But that's what you can tell Donut." Simmons rolls his eyes. "Man, I haven't talked to him since I moved to New York. Before that even." The last conversation Grif remembers having with Donut is the week after he quit. He was definitely plastered. Donut was nice enough for both of them, and sad, maybe. Grif could be remembering it wrong. Could have made up the whole thing for all he knows. He just remembers that Donut told him it didn't matter why he'd left. It only mattered that he'd been there.

It was a pretty Donut thing of him to say. 

"You'll be fine." Simmons fixes a couple missed buttons and puts his hands behind Grif's head. "Everything is going to be fine." 

They get a cab to the arena where Donut is playing, getting there an hour early to catch the opening act. Tex is waiting at will-call with the guy Grif recognizes as Church, who is just as much the brooding solo act as everyone says he is. He doesn't say much when Tex introduces them, but he does tell Grif he liked the article, which is kind of cool. 

Wash brings Tucker and Caboose brings some girl who works at the jazz bar, but she texts most of the time and eventually ditches them for some friends of hers who are there. Caboose doesn't seem to regret it much, he's having a better time talking to Simmons about their least favorite songs by their most favorite bands. Grif props his feet up on the seat in front of him and sends a text to his sister. 

**grif:** you're gonna miss a good show  
 **kai:** let me know when YOU'RE the one singing

When Donut finally gets on stage, Grif's pretty sure the floor rattles under them. He knew the guy was popular, but he had no fucking _idea_ that it could get this crazy. 

Seeing him in person is weird. It's really, _really_ weird. Everything about him is the same and different. He's wearing a suit and his hair still has that _just rolled out of bed sex god_ thing going for him. He looks good, older now, definitely more matured. He's got poise, presence, all the things that Grif looks for in a good performer. His show entertains, he keeps people on their feet. He makes them laugh. He lets everyone know that a special woman in the audience is here for her fortieth birthday. 

"I know Portland's got a rep for being weird, but I gotta tell you. I'm getting a good vibe tonight. I feel good about this place. I feel like good things are gonna happen here for us. What do y'all think?" Grif sometimes forgets that Donut is from a fucking farm in Iowa. That he spent his childhood mucking out stables and riding his sister's hand-me-down bike to school for seven years. 

"He's good," Simmons says, leaning in close. Grif leans back, because this is still a new, warm feeling for them. And Simmons is right. Donut looks great. He looks at home up there, and Grif can remember their first shows, when they probably all looked like that. He doesn't always remember exactly when that stopped happening, but it makes him feel good that Donut can keep doing it, can keep it up and still love this, love it for _real_.

After the show, Simmons and Grif make their way backstage, flashing their passes at the bouncer. It takes another hour of standing around, stealing muffins from the craft table, before someone comes to get them. Grif feels his stomach drop a little, but Simmons's hand settles on the small of his back and Grif calms down, just a little, just enough to take a breath and see things a little clearer. 

Up close, Donut looks _exactly_ like Grif remembers.

"Shit, man." He's still _working_ , for crying out loud, making some notes on a piece of music and talking to his saxophone player. Grif shakes his head and laughs, because it's all the same, all over again. 

Donut looks up, and his face splits into a grin. "Hey, guys!" 

Grif doesn't know why he was scared of this. Donut was a safe space for him then, and he's a safe space now, coming at them and wrapping his octopus arms around them both, hauling them in and making these ridiculous whooping noises. "You made it!"

"Wouldn't miss it," Simmons says, because he's better at words. 

Donut looks at Grif and Grif remembers, really _remembers_ , the exact last moment when he saw Donut, standing in the door of his hotel room, trying to get him to drink water. _Grif, come on. It's okay._ It wasn't okay. _I don't care why you're leaving. I don't. I'm just glad you were here for it._ Grif had hit him. Shoved him. Something. The last thing he had ever done to Donut before this moment was push him away. 

So Grif reaches out and pulls him in tight, steadying himself against his shoulder. He feels Donut hold him tight and, for a minute, it's just this. And it feels good. 

"Fuck, I missed you."

"Missed you, too, Grif." Donut pulls back and grabs Grif by the shoulders, shaking him. "You look great, I'm serious. You guys hungry? We should go somewhere. Catch up. Lemme get changed and we'll jet." He looks between the two of them again and shakes his head. "This is unreal, I'm so happy."

They have every intention of going out, but the idea of being around so many people is overwhelming, and they get a car back to Grif's place and order a few pizzas. It's a quiet thing, the kind of thing they would have done ten years ago, when things were starting to get good. Donut is sprawled out on the floor, a plate of pizza on his chest, laughing about Grif's Sarge stories, about how long it took Grif and Simmons to get their collective shit together and figure out they were _supposed_ to be doing this thing together.

"I mean, everyone _knew_ ," he says, sitting up. "Except you guys of course." He picks at his crust and looks at them. "So."

Grif nods. "So."

"Okay, I think we should just get it out there," Simmons says. 

"Right." Donut straightens up a little. "I asked Simmons first because--"

"You don't have to explain that to me," Grif interrupts. 

Donut looks relieved. "Okay. Then...do you want to? _Both_ of you," he adds. 

"I know I do." Simmons looks at Grif, his expression saying everything: _Will you be okay? Can you do this? Can **we** do this?_

Grif reaches out to steal Donut's pizza and grins. "I'm in." 

Donut tackles him. " _Uncool_ , Grif. Majorly uncool."

Simmons laughs and offers up his last piece. Donut takes it defiantly. "So we're good, then?"

Grif looks at Donut, and he can see exactly the person he is reflected back at him. And it feels good.

"Yeah," he says. "We're good."

"Hello _Portland!_ "

Grif is pacing backstage while Tucker and Caboose open for them. Simmons had suggested it, figured it would be a good way to sell the album he'd just helped them record. The whole thing had been so easy to say yes to, in the end, but standing back here, watching that stage and knowing in just short of an hour, he'll be on it -- it's making Grif want to go running. 

"Pull the stick out of your ass, dipshit." Grif turns around and Sarge is standing there, his perpetual scowl lifted into what Grif _thinks_ is a smile, but fuck, he isn't sure of anything anymore. "You need a vomit bucket?"

"Uh, no? Is this your idea of supporting me? Because it blows, sir. Hard." Sarge chuckles and comes to stand with him. "What if I die?"

"Pretty crowded funeral." 

"I think I saw a bat," Grif says carefully. "Maybe we should postpone. Until after bat season."

"Can it." Sarge angles himself toward Grif and points at him. "You're gonna go out there and do what you said you would. Rolling Stone isn't gonna hire a quitter."

"I'm not taking the job, sir."

Sarge looks surprised. "Oh."

"No." Grif shakes his head. "I mean, it pays more and my boss would probably be nicer than you and I'd get to meet, like, Robert Downey Jr. maybe, or something. I don't fucking know." He shrugs. "But it isn't here. So. I can't go back. To New York." Grif looks at his feet. "I have to stay here and finish what I started."

"Could take a while," Sarge muses.

Grif looks beyond him toward Donut, adjusting his suit jacket, getting pumped up. To Simmons, who meets his eye and gives him a smile. He looks back at Sarge, who's a fucking asshole, like, all the time, and insults Grif's intelligence and calls him at odd hours in the morning because he probably doesn't sleep, just to ask him if he edited something or emailed a new version to the printers. He thinks about Tex and Church and Wash. Tucker and Caboose, wide-eyed and eager to make a name for themselves. He thinks about his sister, out there in the audience, screaming the loudest because he fucking _swears_ he can hear her. He thinks about waking up in this town and going to bed in this town and getting _better_ in this town.

Grif became who he wanted to be, here, because of these people, because of the people who stopped to ask if he was okay, even when they knew he wasn't. Because they needed him to say it outloud, or needed to listen to another lie, make _Grif_ listen to another lie, so maybe he could finally figure things out. This is the place where he started everything over, from the ground up, and did it _right._ This is the place where he finally got some peace, _came_ to peace with his life before, enough that he could do this show. Sing those songs again. Do what he _loved_ again. 

"It's okay," Grif finally says. "I've got company."


End file.
